


Don't Talk

by constantlyinthedark



Category: Secret History - Donna Tartt
Genre: Charles is a dick here, M/M, Rough Sex, references to charles/camilla and francis/henry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 18:37:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14899841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constantlyinthedark/pseuds/constantlyinthedark
Summary: Normal girls don’t listen to their brother fucking someone, but normal girls don’t fuck their brother either.





	Don't Talk

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not thrilled with how this turned out, but I figured someone might enjoy it.

Camilla can hear them.

She can hear her brother push Francis down onto the floor, and she can hear Francis gag as Charles shoves his cock down his throat. 

They’ve barely entered the room, but Charles has been drunk and careless lately, as well as especially handsy with Francis, though only when he thinks she’s looking away. She hasn’t heard him say a word to Francis since he arrived. He’s cold with Francis now, despite his lust for him. Charles is somehow under the impression that she’s unaware of his relationship with Francis, but she’s heard them fuck and, in one memorable occasion, seen Francis walk out of Charles’s room with a bit of come still on his cheek. But Charles must not have heard her come home, because he doesn’t even know that she knows he likes men, too, and a part of her fears what he would do if she walked in—lash out at her, maybe, or Francis instead. There is no romance in the way he treats Francis, not even the slightest bit of sentimentality. Camilla can hear his rapid, erratic thrusts—he won’t even give Francis the mercy of a steady rhythm. 

Normal girls don’t listen to their brother fucking someone, but normal girls don’t fuck their brother either. It’s not  _ rape _ —Camilla can hardly bring herself to even think that word. She agrees to it every time, and there’s no way Charles could know she doesn’t always want to, really. And she’s not a helpless victim; she’s attracted to Charles, just as he is to her, and that might damn her, but she’d rather be damned and in control. And Francis, too, agrees to it, although it’s never seemed this brutal before. The first time she overheard them, more than a year ago now, Francis was sucking Charles off, too, and Charles kept repeating “are you sure you’re okay,” “hum if you need more air” with a genuine concern.

“You’ll take it,” she hears Charles mutter coolly from the other side of the wall dividing their rooms as Francis makes soft choking sounds. Charles must be ramming his entire cock down Francis’s throat, because Camilla’s heard them before and Francis is always calm and quiet, sucking Charles off masterfully. Camilla knows he’s always so anxious to please Charles, and the thought of Charles being so rough that Francis can’t make what he’s doing look easy is frightening. It’s horrible, Camilla thinks, how Charles takes advantage of Francis, and not once, she realizes, did he defend him when Bunny was tormenting him. She’s heard Francis beg Charles to fuck him harder and seen rough rope burns on his wrists, and she thinks that Francis probably has a masochistic streak, but God, he couldn’t be enjoying this. Suddenly, she hears him slapping at Charles’s chest, and she doesn’t know when Charles last let him up for air, but Charles is muttering to him, urging, or perhaps ordering, him to take it all, choke on it, and Francis is gagging—

Charles comes with a groan and a few seconds later, Francis begins coughing fitfully. “Charles, I can’t—” he begins.

“Fuck,” Charles moans, “I love how you suck dick,” and Francis is quiet.

“I’m going to get water,” he says a minute later. She hears him stand up.

“Get me some vodka, too, won’t you?” Charles says. “I’m not drunk enough for this.”

***

Francis comes back. In a moment, she can hear his soft moans and picture Charles slipping his hands into his pants (she knows him well enough to know he’d never suck Francis off.) Briefly, it’s silent except for Francis’s heavy breathing. Then Camilla hears a loud noise—Charles pushing Francis on the bed—and Charles slurs “Want to fuck you.” It isn’t a question, and she knows Francis could never make himself refuse anyway. “On your stomach,” Charles mutters, “come on, put your face in the pillow.” Somehow the sheer cruelty of refusing to look at the man taking his cock hits Camilla harder than anything before. Charles spits into his hand and Camilla realizes a second before he begins that he intends to fuck Francis with no preparation. She’s certainly no expert on gay sex, but she imagines that between her classical studies and these nights when Charles thinks he’s being quiet, she knows more than most straight girls, and God, it must  _ hurt _ , but Francis stays remarkably silent. She can picture him squeezing his eyes shut to keep from screaming. He lets out a low groan. “God, don’t  _ talk _ ,” Charles says with what must be a particularly violent thrust, making Francis cry out, his voice muffled. She imagines Charles’s hands tight on Francis’s bony hips, pressing bruises into his skin, and she should do something, she really should.

It goes on for far too long, Francis whimpering every so often and Charles continuing relentlessly. Then suddenly, Francis is struggling, pounding his hands against the bed and making desperate, stifled, sounds of protest, and Camilla realizes Charles’s hand is on Francis’s throat, squeezing tight, as he pushes his head deeper into the pillow. “Get off of me,” Francis rasps, thrashing against Charles. Francis is taller than Charles, but Charles has a good twenty or thirty pounds on him, and he doesn’t stop, even as Francis must be growing too weak to fight back. She should go in, yell at Charles to stop—he could fucking kill him, for God’s sake, intentionally or not.

Charles comes with a groan, and Francis makes a strangled sobbing noise.

“What was that?” Francis says, gasping for air. “I could hardly breathe, you could have killed me.”

“God, you’re so dramatic,” Charles retorts. “You always think you’re dying.”

“You gave me a fucking panic attack, I think I’m justified in thinking I was about to—”

“Shut up, you faggot,” Charles says flatly.

“Oh, I’m a faggot,” Francis begins, his trademark haughtiness coming back, “when you’re the one sticking his dick up—”

Charles hits him, a brutal smack to Francis’s face, and Camilla hears him crash into the bed again. “Shut the fuck up.” The bed creaks again—Charles climbing on—and Francis cries out. “Don’t you fucking talk to me that way,” Charles seethes, slamming Francis’s head back into the wall once, twice, and God, Camilla should stop him, but he keeps hitting him, the sickening punches all too audible. Then, for a moment, it’s completely quiet. 

Charles’s voice softens. “You were good,” he says, and she can imagine him running his fingers through Francis’s hair the way that he does. “So good, you’re always so good for me.” He kisses Francis’s softly. “You go now,” he says, not unkindly. “I have to sleep.”

***

“Camilla? Are you there?” Francis asks cautiously, and Camilla can barely bring herself to respond, already envisioning his bruised and bloodied body. And  _ fuck _ , he’s crying like a child as he gasps for breath. “Panic attack,” he manages. “Can I sit down?” She nods. 

He sits on the bed beside her and she puts on arms loosely around his shoulders, holding him as he tries to breathe normally again. His face is red, his bottom lip is split and bleeding, and the beginning of a black eye is forming on the left side of his face. The two of them sit there for nearly fifteen minutes, silent except for Francis’s gasps and sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last. “This is absolutely pathetic.”

“No, no,” Camilla says, holding him tighter. “Francis, I heard everything.”

“He got come on my shirt,” he says distastefully, staring down at the black button-up. Camilla understands. Sometimes the big picture is so ugly that the only way to endure it is to focus on the particulars.

“That and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck,” he adds.

It occurs to Camilla that she’s never talked about sex with Francis, and she doubts the boys have, either, given their faint discomfort around his sexuality. It’s possible that this is the first time he’s talking about any of this out loud. Francis can take care of himself, certainly,  but she imagines months of enduring the insults and slurs Bunny hurled at him have gotten to him. “Francis, I’m sleeping with my own brother,” she says with a slight smile. “I’m not going to judge you for blowing him.”

Francis blushes scarlet, but he nods once, a brief gesture of thanks. He lies back on the bed, saying nothing for a moment. “You know, the second he said I did well, it was like everything was okay. Like I’d let him do whatever he wanted to me, just as long as I could pretend he loved me.” He closes his eyes. “When I was blowing him, I just kept feeling bad that I couldn’t do it like he wanted.”

“Francis, you can’t let him get away with this sort of thing,” Camilla says, and she feels like crying, too.

“I know,” he says helplessly. “He’s a fucking sadist. I still love him.”

“I love him too,” she says. “I can’t stop.”

“Does he do it to you?” Francis asks quietly.

Camilla shakes her head. “He acts like I’m made of glass,” she says. And she’ll go to hell for thinking this, but maybe it would be simpler if he did, if she could just hate him. “Did you know he doesn’t even want me to blow him?” she asks, more bitter than she has the right to be considering what Francis just went through. “He thinks it’s below me.”

“Fucking misogynist,” Francis says with surprising venom. “I suppose he’s got me for that.”  

“I blew Henry once,” he adds a moment later. “In the interest of full disclosure.”

“What?”

“After Bunny. One thing just led to another. I doubt I’m any competition to you.” He stares at the ceiling. “He was nice. Gentle. Offered to do it for me in return, but I didn’t let him. He didn’t really want to.”

“That’s funny,” Camilla says with a hint of wonder. “It’s all so absurd. You kissed me too, remember?”

“Of course.” Francis slips an arm around her. “I love you. You know that, right? If I liked girls at all…”

“I’m glad you don’t,” she says. “It’s bad enough with just the others.”

“Camilla, can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“I wanted it a little bit,” Francis confesses. “For him to just kill me and end it all. Throw me into some shallow, hastily constructed grave and bury me under the snow like Bunny.”

And it’s late, and Camilla doesn’t know how to respond to something like that, so she leans in and kisses him on the cheek softly.

“Stay with me,” Camilla says, pulling him close to her, and he does.


End file.
